


Little Shop of Jean's Complete Lack of Responsibility

by Arenoptara



Series: Jearmin Week 2014 [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dishonesty, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Jean being a loser as per usual, Jearmin Week, M/M, Morons, Plants, Sexual References, Song writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1965702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arenoptara/pseuds/Arenoptara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin goes away to Europe for three weeks to visit family, leaving Jean alone to tend the apartment--and Armin's dearest plant Träumer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Shop of Jean's Complete Lack of Responsibility

Three weeks. Armin could easily do that. Jean _maybe_ could do that. He hadn't ever been alone home by himself for longer than a few days, and so without proper experience, he had no idea how to accurately gauge just how well he'd do with three-Armin-less weeks. And it wasn't that Armin was going to be a few states away. No, he was flying all the way over to Germany to hang out with his ex-navy grandpa, his aunt, and a shit-ton of distant relatives he had never known the names of until maybe a few months ago. That left Jean caring for the apartment. And himself. And . . . the plant.

He stood in the doorway, his future woes swirling through his head as he watched Armin zip up the last of his luggage carriers and set them on the ground. The long handle came out and then he was ready. Armin turned around smiling, but when he saw forlorn Jean that smile dissolved into maybe pity, Jean wasn't sure, and he came over to give Jean a giant hug—Armin was small, but his hugs giant.

“I already paid the bills and rent so you don't have to worry about that. And I called the maintenance guy. He'll be by sometime in the next week to fix the television. I bought 200 dollars worth of groceries last night, so you shouldn't _have_ to go out anywhere. Don't listen to Eren if he tries to convince you to go,” Armin said quickly. He was so small he had to tilt his head back in order to breath, or he'd just get a face-ful of Jean's clothed shoulder.

Jean pulled him in closer. No words met his brain, so he stayed quiet.

“Also, I know you're not exactly the best of friends with plants but remember Träumer needs to be watered every day. And fertilized once a week. That shouldn't be too much for you, especially considering it's a _hypoestes phyllostachya_. They're really not that troublesome. It would mean a lot.” Armin pulled away against an unwilling Jean.

“Fine,” Jean said. “Water. Fertilizer. Easy.”

Armin gave a pained smile. “My plane leaves in an hour. I need to get going.”

“Right,” Jean said, and when Armin just stared at him, Jean said again, “Right. Keys. I'm driving.”

They picked Annie up on the way to the Salt Lake International Airport. Mikasa and Eren were waiting for them already, standing on the giant globe on the floor, hopping from country to country in some kind of game. They stopped when the others arrived. Everyone gave Armin a giant hug, and they talked, and Jean didn't really listen, instead looking over at the security guys and threatening them in his mind if they tried anything with Armin. Ever since that creepy guy patted Annie down the last time the five of them went to Vancouver, Jean didn't trust them.

“Hey, Jean,” Armin said—Eren snapped his fingers in Jean's face.

“Sorry, what?” Jean said with a few quick blinks.

Armin reached up on his tip-toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Love you.” Then he touched noses and turned to his luggage. “I'll see you all in three weeks.”

They watched him until he disappeared and Jean immediately sighed and trudged back to the car. The others split at the parking garage entrance, already slipping their helmets on. Somewhere on the journey from the door to their quarry, Annie took the keys from him and he ended up standing by the passenger side of his own car.

“You're not on the insurance, Annie; I can't let you drive,” he complained when he finally realized what was going on.

“I'm the best driver of all you bums, and since your brain is still stuck on the plane with Armin, I'm going to drive you back to your apartment and then take a bus home,” Annie said. She held up a finger when his mouth opened. “Get in the car.”

But she didn't take him directly to his apartment. They stopped off at some local coffee shop and she bought them both mochas and Reuben sandwiches. Jean ate his slowly, staring off unblinkingly at a chair leg across the room.

“You're the worst,” Annie said before biting into her sandwich.

His eyes shot up and locked on her. “What the hell? Why?”

“Because you're so useless without Armin. It's three weeks, Jean,” Annie said. “I used to live out of my car in high school for two years.”

Jean frowned. “Don't pull that one on me. Look, I'm fine. Jesus. Maybe I'm just planning out a schedule, all right? Got things to take care of. Don't want to screw it up.”

Annie gave him a look. “Yes, I'm sure that's what you were doing when you were staring vacantly at that table, eating your food slower than a snail running a marathon.”

“Snails don't run,” Jean pointed out.

“God,” Annie breathed and continued eating her sandwich.

When they finished she dropped him off and then walked to a bus stop less than ten seconds later, her only farewell in the form of a hand in the air. Jean tried to thank her for the food but she was too far away and he didn't feel like yelling. _Ah, she knows anyway._ He went inside the apartment—the too quiet apartment—and stood there staring at it all. Armin always kept on jazz radio when he was home.

 _Look on the bright side, Jean. Now you can play all the country you want and no one can stop you._ So he did. Miranda Lambert's voice soared through every room in the apartment, leaving no particle of air untouched. And he sat on the couch, singing along with his eyes closed for about three hours until he fell over and sunk into dreamland.

He woke up to a text from Armin: Just arrived in Munich. I'll call you when I get to my aunt's house. Love you. <3

Jean stared at it for longer than a person should and ended up replying: Send pictures.

And then ten seconds later: Love you too. Sorry. I just woke up from a nap.

Armin replied: :)

Jean stared at that too. “What the hell does that mean?” he muttered under his breath. But he shrugged and rolled off the couch. “So . . . I should . . . probably do something . . . mmm . . .” The radio was still playing—his neighbors probably hated him for keeping it on all night. It was nice to wake up to. He looked around, eyes falling on Träumer, sitting on the cement barrier of their tiny little ground-floor patio. Jean took a deep breath and then opened the sliding door to speak with the plant.

“Right now, Armin is getting off a plane and getting hugs and kisses from his overzealous relatives. And I am here with you,” Jean said, leaning down so he was eye-level with Träumer. “Now, we don't have have the closest relationship, but please, for Armin's sake, don't be a little bastard. I know how plants can be. I had one when I was young. You know what happened? It died. You know why? Because it was greedy. It wanted too much. Sunlight, water, attention, and shit. So you think you can be fair?” He poked a leaf. “Huh?”

“Jean?”

Jean stood up straight and turned around to see Eren in the front doorway, key in the lock, staring at him with a raised eyebrow. “Why are you here?” Jean asked with a frown. “You don't live here.”

“I come over here all the time, moron,” Eren complained, closing the door with a foot and throwing his backpack on the floor. He knelt down beside it, undid the zipper, and pulled out a huge container of Lord Calvert Canadian whiskey. As he got up and rounded into the kitchen, he said casually, “Unless you don't want any of this. You still listening to this country crap?”

The whiskey was too important. Jean gave the plant one last look and walked back into the apartment to sit at the counter. “You only come when Armin's over. It's weird to have you here without him.”

“Oh boo hoo, Jean can't handle me on his own.” Eren untwisted the cap and perused the cupboards for some shot glasses.

“That's not it at all,” Jean said with a sour face.

“Don't get your boxers in a twist, man.” Eren pulled out their baseball shot glasses and poured both of them a shot. He pushed the Red Sox glass to Jean and took the Angels one for his own.

“You can't use my shot glass in my own house and give me the diseased one,” Jean said. 

Eren lifted the glass. “Armin'd be hurt to hear you say that.”

Jean shrugged. “I've given the Red Sox enough shit around Armin.” But Jean wasn't in the mood to fight, so he yielded and picked up the cursed Red Sox shot glass. “What are we toasting to?”

“That you won't destroy the apartment while Armin's gone. Especially his plant,” Eren said, glancing behind Jean to Träumer.. Even now it looked like the leaves were reaching towards them, like the damn thing could hear the conversation.

“I'm not a moron, Eren. I know how to take care of an apartment,” Jean said, lifting his glass. “But I'll accept your stupid toast. To not destroying the apartment.”

They clinked glasses, made eye contact, and then drank. Jean slapped the shot glass on the counter and shook his head. “God, this whiskey is terrible.”

“I think you mean the best,” Eren said, wiggling his nose, and then screwing the lid back on the container. “If you need anything, remember you can just call me. I'm like ten minutes away. Also!” He slapped the counter and then jogged over to his backpack again, pulling out a rectangular object. He pranced back to Jean and wiggled it in his face.

Jean moved back and swiped it from his hands.

“Pacific Rim Blu-Ray. We're gonna watch it when you get your TV fixed. When's the repairman coming, again?” Eren wandered over to the fridge and leaned in, gazing over his abundant—there was like five things—choices.

Jean carefully set the movie on the counter. “I don't know. Armin called him. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Make sure you text me when it's fixed so I can come over,” Eren said. “Else we'll have to watch it on Mikasa's computer.”

“What's your number again?” Jean asked, pouring himself another shot.

Eren gave him a dry look. “Did you delete me again?”

“I delete numbers I don't use very often,” Jean lied.

Eren sneered. “Well I'm texting you, so add me in again.” He typed something and then grinned.

A second later Jean's phone vibrated. He picked it up and read the text out loud, “Fuck you Horseface. Ha ha, like I haven't heard that one before. But it's nice to know this asshole who's texted me all this nonsense is someone I know. Now I can put a name to this one-sided conversation.” He spoke as he typed it in. “That Jaeger Shit.”

Eren just rolled his eyes. He poured himself another shot too. They lifted their glasses. “To us assholes. May we never die.” They clinked and drank. “Whoo!!” Eren breathed loudly, slapping the glass down. “That'll get you up in the morning.”

“Are you leaving now?” Jean asked, leaning his head to the side on his fist.

“Why? You got plans?” Eren asked, putting the whiskey up on top of the fridge.

“Armin's going to call me soon.” Jean glanced at his phone. Ten minutes had passed since Armin had promised to call him. He wondered how far away his aunt's house was from the airport. They probably stopped off at different places on the way. From what Jean had heard and seen in pictures, Munich was a fantastic city. Just the bratwurst stands alone would distract Jean from whatever plans he'd have.

“All right, all right. But you can't get rid of me that easily again, okay?” Eren pointed at him and gave a demented look—more demented than his face usually was, that is. He smacked the counter in some rhythm and then wandered over to his helmet. “Remember. _Pacific Rim_. Text me.”

Jean waved a hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it.”

Fifteen minutes later Armin called. Jean turned the radio down and sat down on the couch. “Armin? How's Germany?”

“Hello to you too,” Armin said cheerfully. “I've only been here for thirty minutes. We went straight to my aunt's house so I haven't had time to really delve into anything. She's cooking up some food right now for dinner. They say she's one of the best cooks in the region—yeah Gramps, I know. I'll be there in a second—sorry about that, my grandpa wants me to sing some of our songs for the family. Time to make a good impression right?” He chuckled. “What about you?”

“I just woke up and uh . . . I haven't done anything yet. Though Eren stopped by with some whiskey. I think he's going to come back later today and he'll probably end up drunk and I'll have to clean up his vomit or something.” Jean sighed and ran a hand down his face, stopping for a moment to pinch his nose. “I was thinking of . . . writing. Or playing.” He glanced over at his guitar sitting in its stand in the corner of the room. He also noticed Träumer's leaves pointed towards it, like he was trying to snatch it away.

Armin sighed. “That's all you did the other day. I think you need a break. Why not take a walk?”

Jean “mmed,” not really listening, instead staring at Träumer and the inevitable war he'd have on his hands if that sucker died. Armin would never forgive him. And Jean would never forgive the plant if it used any of its evil plant powers.

“Or go to the library? Maybe see a movie? Or makeout with Annie?”

“What?” Jean asked sharply. “You'd be okay with that--?”

“I was joking, Jean. Because you weren't listening.”

“Oh,” Jean said, shrinking up at the tone in Armin's voice. “S-so was I. Joking too. About you being okay . . . you know . . .” He stopped, face heating up, and then loudly blurted out, “Well I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it. But you'll always be my number one, Armin. Like we're going to get married and adopt babies and . . . and all that stuff.”

Armin started laughing and Jean relaxed, melting into the couch with a huge breath of relief.

“Oh I didn't know you were so serious, Jean,” Armin said. “And for the record, I don't think you and Annie would work. First off, she hates you—I mean she loves you, of course, but . . . she hates you. And your personalities are a little different. I mean if you wanted to give it a try, by all means. Love is weird. Anything could happen. It might even work out.”

“Armin are you seriously telling me this? Am I hearing right?” Jean asked carefully, unsure whether the blond was joking or half-joking or being completely serious. And no matter what the answer was, Jean had no idea how he felt about it.

The line was quiet for a second and Jean's heart started beating.

“Armin . . .?” he tried.

He came back so quickly Jean almost had a heart attack. “Sorry, my second cousin was licking her elbow.”

“ . . . What?” Jean said weakly.

Armin laughed. “I'm being serious. If you wanted to try a relationship with someone else, I just want what's best for you. Of course, I'd be sad and still madly in love with you, so I guess on my end it wouldn't be that great. So I mean, I'm not like overwhelmed with enthusiasm in the idea but--”

“Will you just shut the fuck up?”

“Shutting the fuck up, Commander,” Armin said. “Anything else you want me to do, Commander?”

“Oh God, don't do that here—there. Someone will hear you,” Jean said, eyes wide.

“It's so easy to make you squirm,” Armin gloated.

Jean smiled, but he said as if pissed off, “I can easily hang up you know.”

“No need for that, Commander.” His voice got quieter and closer. “If you'd rather make me squirm, I'll be happy to make myself available. Anything for _you_ , Commander.”

Jean put a hand over his red face. “Oh my God, Armin, stop.”

Armin laughed again. “All right. But only because if I don't go and sing for everyone, they'll probably fry me in the pan too. Not really in the mood to be served for dinner with some potato salad. Even if the dishes are fancy.”

“That fancy dishes could change your mind . . .” Jean shook his head. “Well, blow them out of the water.”

“And when I get back maybe I'll blow--”

“Ahhhhhh I LOVE YOU. BYE.” He hung up with the sound of Armin's laughter still ringing in his ears. He set the phone on his stomach and grinned like an idiot. A moment later a text came through. He was almost afraid to look at it, but of course he couldn't resist.

Armin: As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, when I get back maybe I'll blow away the audience at that gig you booked in Salt Lake.

Jean: Oh yes of course that's what you were going to say.

Armin: It was. Don't blame me for your dirty mind.

Jean snorted.

Armin: I could help you scrub it clean, Commander. Got just the tools.

Jean: Yes please?

Armin: Too bad I'm thousands of miles away.

Jean: Yeah.

Armin: I really do have to go now.

Jean: Talk to you later.

Armin: <3

–

The rest of the day went by relatively smooth. Jean watered Träumer. For Armin's sake, he went to the library and did some research on plants, and that particularly species of plants—took him ten minutes to find it. He printed out some classic poetry, most of them including the word sun in it, and headed home. Eren and Annie were waiting for him, already half-drunk on the Canadian whiskey. Jean listened their drunken chatter for over an hour while he pored over the poetry, choosing the best pieces, and practicing in his mind the best way to read them. Then they forced him to read to them. Eren died laughing. Annie kind of just fell asleep. Jean left them in there for the night and went to sleep on his bed this time.

In the morning, they were still sleeping. Jean kicked them awake and Annie helped Eren to the bus stop. When they were gone, Jean went outside onto the patio, a poem in hand, pulled up one of the two chairs and sat before Träumer. “I spent time on this. I hope you like poetry. You better like poetry. Other plants like poetry.”

But it was a plant and this was Jean so if the poetry did anything, he couldn't tell. Träumer just sat there, polka-dotted leaves reaching into the air. He gave it some water again and went to make himself some food.

As he was frying eggs, he muttered to himself, “Reading poetry to plants. Poetry. Poetry is boring as hell. Music is much better. Wonder if the bastard likes country. Probably not, being raised by Armin.” He flipped the eggs over and turned off the heat. “I could write and help the plant. Write a song for the plant. No, for Armin. About . . . about the plant. A song about a plant. Great idea, Jean. Oh you beautiful plant with stalks so high you do nothing all day but soak up water and sun and I don't understand why the fuck you're so special.” Jean took the pan off the heat and slipped the eggs onto a plate. “Probably can't use those lyrics. What if I wrote them in German? I don't know German. Armin does. Eren does. Ha, funny, Jean, ask the shit face. I'll translate it later. But then the music will be off. Translators online suck ass. Guess I'll just have to go English. Does it really matter?” Jean sat down at the table and stared at his floppy eggs. “It's just a plant. It should appreciate any fucking song. It should be happy I'm writing a song for it at all. The things I do for Armin . . .”

He got out some paper and his guitar and perched on the cement barrier outside next to Träumer. He never looked at the plant. Pretended it wasn't there. Just started writing the first verse, letting “nature guide his fingers.”

Halfway through the first verse, Armin called him. Jean picked up immediately. “Hey!”

“Walking around Munich right now. The bratwursts here are so much better than in America,” Armin said. “And there's a stand for them on almost every corner. It's remarkable. You doing anything fun? Grandpa, no, don't do that. That's not yours.”

Jean waited for him to come back to reply. “Yeah. I'm . . . enjoying nature. With a friend.”

“What friend? Anyone I know?” Armin asked.

He knew all of Jean's friends—all three of them: Annie, Mikasa, and Eren. And if he was with any of them, they'd have commandeered the phone by now to say hello.

“Just . . . just the . . . kid from next door.”

“There are no kids next door,” Armin said.

Jean chuckled. “They must have just wandered in then.”

“You're on the patio, aren't you?” Armin asked dryly.

“I'm hanging out with Traumer,” Jean defended. “Taking care of him like he was my own son.”

“If he was your own son you'd say his name correctly,” Armin said. “But thanks. Sung anything to him? Plants like music. That's mostly why I play jazz all day. It keeps humans and plants happy.”

“Yeah--”

“Oh sorry, I have to go. One of the kids ran off and she's—hey, don't, Grandpa—eh—sorry Jean. I'll call you later!” Jean barely got a farewell in before Armin had hung up.

–

Two days later, Jean was still writing, stuck on the chorus, and cursing up a storm. But he wouldn't stop. The song had to be written. If not for the plant, then for Armin. And it was the only interesting thing Jean felt like doing.

“What's that? A new song?” Eren grinned. “For when Armin comes back? I know you miss him but does three weeks really count as enough time to write a song about how your heart is breaking and all that woeful stuff because your Honey Bunny isn't around to tuck you in at night and spoon with you and talk shit with you about people you mutually hate? I admit, that last one isn't as romantic enough for a song, but it's vastly underrated.”

Jean looked up from the paper to give Eren an nettled stare. His fingers moved to E and he strummed. It worked. He scribbled it down. “An hour would be enough. And I'm writing it for the fucking plant. I read that singing can make them happy or whatever the plant equivalent is. More eager to soak up sun or some shit.” He moved his fingers down and played a couple more experimental notes.

“Is that what the poetry was for?” The annoying one swiped the paper and kept it against Jean's complaints. “How do you understand this? It's gibberish.”

“It's just--” He reached for it, but Eren moved. “Just--” Again he tried and this time succeeded. “Another language. You know German.” He smoothed out the wrinkled and set it back on the coffee table.

A few inches away, his phone vibrated, rattling the glass. Jean set the guitar down on his lap when he recognized Armin's ring tone a second later.

“You have one of your own songs as his ring tone?” Eren snorted.

Jean ignored him and pressed talk. His shoulder held it to his ear so his fingers could keep playing. “Hey, Ar.”

The sounds of loud singing and maybe an accordion reached Jean's ears. And then Armin's voice, half-shouting. “Jean! Next time I go to Europe I'm taking you with me. You'd _love_ it he—grandpa, no, that's, that's not Janine, that's that guy's—no--hold on—” It sounded like he set the phone on the table. Faintly Jean could hear his voice, but not understand what he said.

Jean sighed and tried out a chord for the end of the verse. As he wrote it down, he glanced at Eren who'd sprawled over the floor on his back, holding his phone above his head as he texted someone. Jean wished it would fall on his face.

“Why you still here?” Jean asked. He erased one of the notes and changed it to a B flat.

“Mikasa got held up at rehearsal,” Eren said and set his phone on his stomach. “Do you still have some Lord Calvert?”

“You drank it all,” Jean muttered. His fingers froze on the strings when he heard Armin pick his phone up again.

In a breathless voice, the blond apologized. “I'm sorry. I'm moving to the patio now. It's quieter there. My grandpa is dancing with a—oof--sorry sorry—Spanish naval officer, so I have a moment to breathe. They'll be swapping navy stories for awhile, I'm sure.” All at once the noise muted to a dim background and Jean relaxed, not knowing he had tensed up in the first place.

“Jean?” Armin asked.

“I'm still here,” he said.

His voice got quiet. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah I'm fine. Writing. I mean, Eren's bugging me, but I'm fine otherwise. The apartment is still standing. The dishes are being washed as we speak. Hell, it's only been three days; why wouldn't I be okay? It's not like I'm twelve.”

Armin chuckled and Jean couldn't help but smile at the sound. “I think even Eren knows you'll lock yourself up for three weeks and write and probably putrefy if no one's around.”

“Tch. No I won't . . . Look, be grateful. I'm writing a song especially for Traumer.” Jean played a few notes as proof.

“I'm sure he'll appreciate it a lot . . . Hey, Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“If anything happens, don't be afraid to call. Really. You won't be bothering me. It'll actually probably be the high point of my day. Spending twelve plus hours a day with a half-there grandpa isn't exactly the greatest way to spend one's time in Europe.”

Jean stayed quiet. His index finger picked at a string.

“Jean?”

He readjusted the phone. “Yeah, okay. Look, Armin, you should get back to the party. Don't worry about me. And I love you.”

“And I love you. I'll call you when I get home,” Armin promised.

Jean waited for Armin to hang up. Then he tossed his phone beside him on the couch.

“What the hell kind of conversation was that?” Eren asked, dragging himself to a sitting position.

“The kind that's none of your damn business,” Jean said. “Will you get out of my house already? You're contaminating my song.”

Eren got to his feet and stretched his arms up over his head. “Yeah, yeah. Hey, Mikasa and I may drop by later. Shoot some whiskey. Watch some _House of Cards_ on her laptop—we can't watch _Pacific Rim_ until your TV's fixed. Maybe try some strip poker.” He pointed a finger at Jean, squinted one eye, and clicked his tongue as if firing a bullet.

“I told you I don't have any whiskey. You drank it all,” Jean muttered. “You sure you want to play strip poker? You suck at poker, and I don't think you want to scar Mikasa with whatever the hell you got going on under your boxers.”

“Oh shut up,” Eren said. “But speaking of Mikasa, you're going to see her show right? It opens in four days. We're all going opening day. And I got you a ticket, but if you decide to be a loser with some excuse you need to write a shitty song for a plant—albeit a very special plant—then I'll give it to a coworker and then Mikasa will ask me why you weren't there, and you should be more concerned with what she'll do to you than how she'll react to my junk—which by the way she's seen, man, obviously, since we've been having sex for years. More like _your_ stuff will fuck us all up. Armin's made of stronger stuff than he gets credit for.”

Jean bit back a retort. “Of course I'll go to her show. Get out. Don't drop by again today. I'm tired.”

“Oh boo hoo. You're not tired; you're just an asshole.” He swiped his keys and helmet from the big chair. “If not tonight, then tomorrow, Scrooge.”

Jean glared at him. “Just get out.”

“I'm going. Jesus.” He opened the door and stood there, putting on his helmet. “Don't forget to water His Majesty Greenleaves.” He tapped the door frame twice.

Jean threatened to throw a pillow and Eren quickly escaped.

With a sigh, Jean looked over at Träumer. “You better like this song. I'm foregoing the pleasantries of life today and probably tomorrow to write it for you.” He narrowed his eyes. “That's all you have to say? Cheeky little bastard.” He played a gross chord in spite and then got back to it.

–

Day six of Armin's absence, Jean woke up to a text, and expecting it to be Armin, immediately popped out of bed to see it. But it was from Annie. He slumped back onto his bed and read it: Since you'd probably forget, Mikasa's show is tonight. It's at seven. Do you need directions?

Jean felt like staying home. Maybe getting lost in that baseball novel he'd picked up at the library about the first woman in Major League Baseball, the one Jean pictured as Mikasa by the description he'd read in the first promising chapter. But he'd promised to go, so he'd forgo fake Mikasa for real Mikasa. She was an even better actress than she was at baseball—she smoked them all in baseball.

Jean: I'll pick you up if you want.

Annie: Sure.

Until then, he made a breakfast burrito, grabbed his book, and laid himself out on the couch. Right as he was about to open the book, his eyes caught the laundry basket, almost full. And beyond he saw the full sink of dishes. And of course there was Träumer just outside. He sighed. “I'll . . . do it later.” But he only got halfway through the page before he at least got up to throw the laundry in the washer, color mixing be damned—cold water usually prevented the worst of disasters. The dishes and the plant still beckoned to him.

“I'll just read to reward myself for doing laundry. Then I can do the same thing later with the others things,” he said to himself and lay back down. “All right . . . where was I . . .”

Despite his kind-of plans, he ended up reading for hours and then it was six and too late to do anything besides get ready. It was a formal event, so he had to look his best. And he had to leave early to pick up Annie. At the door he remembered Träumer, and looked over. The plant still looked all right. It could wait until he got back. If he didn't leave now, he'd be late, and they closed the doors at 7 on the dot. And Annie would have to be giving him directions, so it'd take even longer.

Jean saluted. “Tonight. I promise.”

Mikasa had got them fourth row center seats, which in this theater, was the prime viewing position. Jean sat on the end, letting Annie separate him from Eren. The brunet never whispering during performances, and his reactions to things in the play included gasps and flinches and all manner of distracting things. Annie, on the other hand, became a statue; the perfect neighbor for Jean. To his right sat someone named Berthold that Jean vaguely knew from school that Annie had invited. But he was quiet, so he was also perfect.

The play started one minute after seven. It killed Jean to turn his phone off. Armin was asleep, so he wouldn't call, but Jean wanted to be safe. Maybe he'd wake up for some reason from a horrible nightmare and require comfort from his one and only. But that was stupid. Armin never got nightmares. It was usually Jean who went crawling to him in the middle of the night.

He spent so much brain power worrying about Armin, and the song, and the stupid German plant, the plot of the play escaped him. When the audience laughed, he snapped back to reality, but the joke was done by then. Every time Mikasa was on stage, Annie elbowed him and he could at least focus for as long as she was on stage thanks to her magnetism and stage presence. She outshined them all. In fact, he couldn't see anyone else when she was standing on stage.

It got to the the last act, basically one long uninterrupted scene, a showdown between the five main characters. Finally Jean's mind was on the play. He couldn't look away, leaning forward and sitting near the edge of his seat. By the end, when Mikasa was the last one alive, sitting on the stage, clutching the armchair with one hand, and her “bleeding” side with the other, Jean was pale, horrified. When Miksasa finally died and the curtains closed and everyone clapped, Jean just sat there.

Annie elbowed him again and snorted to herself.

Outside in the lobby, waiting for the cast to come out, Jean leaned against the wall, still pale. Eren had to poke him in the stomach to get him to respond. “Man, what the hell's wrong with you?”

“That was awful,” Jean said.

Eren frowned and said deadpan, “It was amazing, you asshole.”

“No, I know that. I mean . . . that last act . . . that was _awful_. And even though Mikasa had a red scarf to represent blood, man, I thought she was actually dying. That was terrible. Great, but terrible. Jesus.” Jean folded his arms tightly. “Someone should give her an Oscar.”

“That's for the movies,” Annie said.

“Well, someone should give her an award. All of them. Just throw awards at them.”

Eren laughed. “Bring it with us in the theater and then at the end before the curtain closes just throw them on the stage. Can you imagine their faces? Like just 'What the hell?'” Eren started laughing so hard he bent over and put a hand on Jean's shoulder to keep from toppling over. Even though he wanted to shirk away, Jean stayed put. He was only mean in his head—well, beyond his normal assholery.

Mikasa came out, still caked in makeup, making her eyes huge and her cheekbones so prominent Jean was sure they could cut diamonds. She gave Eren a hug, and then a one-armed hug to the other three. “So what did you think?”

“Brought tears to Jean's eyes,” Annie said.

“What?!”

“I messed up a few lines, but I don't think the audience noticed,” Mikasa said. “I'll do better next time.”

Eren put an arm around her shoulders. “That scarf really came in handy, didn't it?” He leaned over and they kissed.

Annie had to drive Jean home again, and when she tried to take the bus he forced her to stay the night because buses at night were sketchy. He let her have the bed and instead slept on the couch. Right as he turned on his alarm and set his phone down he glanced towards the window where behind the blinds Träumer sat, thirsty. _I'm too tired now. I'll give him extra tomorrow. That's how it works, right?_

That's how it worked for Jean. And in the morning he just barely remembered to water the plant, giving it a whopping 24 ounces of water. “That should feel good right? Do you feel like that? Do you feel anything?” He set the measuring cup on the cement next to it. “Or are you just a heartless beast? A sociopath maybe? Except in matters with Armin, I bet. I can tell by the look of you.”

“I'm leaving,” came Annie's voice from behind him.

He lifted a hand in the air and said in a distracted tone, “Yeah okay bye.”

The door closed. A few seconds later he watched her go down the sidewalk and out of sight.

–

Day 13 of Armin's absence Jean spent by buying a canvas and some paint from the store and then painting the chorus of his new song on there. He had finally perfected it, and what better way to spend his victory but by painting it and hanging it on the wall nearest the little green and pink fucker? He even painted some notes green and some pink to make it more festive. It'd outlive the plant, so might as well cling to its memory.

He opened some Jack Daniel's that Eren had brought over the day before, and toasted to finished songs. Next he went into the spare room where kept his recording equipment and began recording. It took seven tries, but he got it in the end. Next he went out onto the patio and played it for Träumer.

After, the plant looked the same. Jean set his guitar down and crouched down by the plant, bringing himself eye level with it. “What did you think? Do you even care? Jesus. All that work for this. At least give me some pity coins. Anything.” He pressed his forehead into the cement and groaned. “Ah whatever. Armin will appreciate it when I play it for him.” He jumped to his feet, swiped his guitar off the ledge and said, “I'm going to go call him right this minute. And you'll see.” He gave Träumer a warning point of his fingers. “He'll love it. And you'll stay out here living your sad little life, wishing you'd been a little more grateful.” He waved it off and then went inside.

Armin didn't pick his phone up the first time. Or any of the seven times after that. Jean lay on the ground in the main room, his phone on his stomach, guitar beside him, tossing a baseball up and down, waiting for Armin to see all the missed alerts and call him right back.

It took about an hour but it was worth it to hear his voice. Jean put it on speaker phone and placed it back on his stomach.

“Everything okay?” Armin asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm just impatient. I haven't talked to you in a few days. No matter how articulate and no matter how many emoticons are used, texting will always be a bland form of communication. And I don't get to hear your voice,” Jean explained, catching the baseball and keeping it and his hand up in the air above him.

Armin chuckled once. “I agree. How're you doing, huh?”

“Well the grass is green, the sun is shining, and I've completed that song I wrote for Traumer. Do you want to hear it?” Jean asked.

“Definitely,” Armin said.

Jean sat up, moved the phone to the side, and took up his guitar. “It's called 'Dreamer' which is so original, I know, but I think it's one of my favorites.” He put his fingers in position and strummed. “You hear okay?”

“Uh huh!”

It wasn't a long song, maybe two minutes, but it was gentle like the breezes that loved to ruffle Armin's hair, and cozy like a fluffy pillow and a blanket right out of the dryer. And Jean had also added a dash of spice to keep the listener from even thinking of falling asleep. Those few notes that seemed like they'd be out of place, but in fact worked very well in the scope of things. And then there was Jean's voice, gruff, a little scratchy, and low, mumbling the words about sunshine and springs and that good feeling he got whenever he held Armin's hand.

The last note held on and then Jean put his hand on the strings to quiet the guitar. Tentatively, he asked, “Well?”

“I love it,” Armin said in a quiet voice. “Did you sing it for Träumer?”

Jean rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, but he didn't appreciate it as much as you.”

“I'm sure he did. You just can't read plant body language. Or leaf language?”

“I can barely read human body language,” Jean pointed out. “But I'm glad you liked it. Took me almost two weeks to write it. Do you want me to play you another one? I mean, it's not mine, but it fits how I feel, so . . .”

“Is that even a question? I love when you sing to me,” Armin said. “Let me just grab this blanket and wrap it around me and get lost in your voice.”

Jean blushed. “All right. So this is, uh, 'Parachutes' by Coldplay. And it's one of my favorites. And it reminds me of you, so . . . You ever heard it?”

“Nope!” Armin said, excited.

“Here goes then.” Jean took a few deep breaths then put his fingers on the strings. He played the introduction, and then began singing. “ _In a haze of stormy haze,_  
I'll be round, I'll be loving you always, always. Here I am and I take my time,  
Here I am and I'll wait in line always, always.” It was about forty seconds long, not nearly long enough, but it got the message across.

On the other side of the phone Armin made some kind of cute inhuman noise and then said, “God, can you sing that to me every day?”

Jean smiled. “Yeah. Every night.” He set the guitar down and the phone back on his stomach. He put his hands under his head as a pillow, smile widening. “Until we die.”

–

On day 18 he actually went out to eat with everyone. That Berthold was there too, holding Annie's hand and looking like the happiest man in the world. The others talked about probably interesting stuff while Jean and his pencil and paper wrote another song. He didn't have his guitar, but he could hear the notes in his head, even if they weren't sharp. His hand scribbled across the paper furiously. Ever since he'd played those songs for Armin, he'd gotten obsessed with writing more for him. He'd even started his own cover version of “Parachutes,” that was of course longer than the original with his own little twists added in.

Mikasa kept looking over but never said anything about it. Annie and Berthold ignored him.

It was Eren who finally said obnoxiously loud, “You can write when you're in the bathtub, Jean. Can you speak?”

Jean blinked and looked up. All eyes rested on him. He set the pencil down carefully. “Sorry. I'm just in the zone. And when you're in the zone you gotta . . . you know . . . do . . the thing you're in the zone for.”

Eren rolled his eyes but Mikasa smiled. “Armin'll be back in three days.”

“Three days. Three days. SHIT. Three days. I got to hurry. Look, would it be rude to leave? I got songs to write and stuff to clean at the apartment before I forget,” Jean said, already standing up.

“Yes, it would be rude,” Eren said.

Jean sat back down. “Well, how about we all go back to my apartment then?”

Eren narrowed his eyes. “It's so obvious what you're trying to do. But if there's alcohol--”

“Jack Daniel's and Punkin Ale,” Jean said quickly.

“Hey guys,” Eren said, slapping the table and making Berthold jump. “I have a great idea. Let's go to Jean's apartment--” His head slowly swiveled over to Jean. “--and drink all his booze.”

“I'm in,” Mikasa said, lifting a hand.

Annie shrugged. Berthold just stared.

Eren grinned. “Great. Let's go. Jean has the repair--”

“No, he hasn't. Stop bugging me about it,” Jean said sourly. He gathered up his papers and headed to his care, racing home without a temporary goodbye. The others arrived ten minutes later, casually strolling in. Eren headed straight for the liquor, pouring everyone a shot of whiskey while Berthold examined the beer. Jean sat on the couch, pencil in his mouth, spreading his papers out, and gazing over them.

“To the madness of musicians!” Eren toasted, and they all clinked glasses. Jean was too busy with his music to hear.

They chatted about something while Jean replayed the entire song so far in his head, humming along during the parts he wasn't sure about, sometimes erasing and changing notes, and sometimes changing them back after a few replays. The only thing that got him to look away was Berthold's voice saying, “I think your plant needs some water.”

“What—I--” Jean looked over, at the sad plant. So sad. Drooping. Half dead, maybe. He jumped up and knelt on the couch. “Shit! I don't even know how long it's been since I watered him.” He back-rolled off the couch, rushed into the kitchen, motioning for everyone to get out of the way, grabbed the nearest container, filled it with water, and headed to the door. He shoved the sliding door and screen open and then dumped the entire container on Träumer. Then he set it aside and stared, as if he expected the plant to just jump up and be happy again. “Traumer . . . come on . . “ He nudged a leaf. “Don't do this to me pally. Don't do this to me.”

“Pally? Anytime you mention that plant you always call it a bastard,” Annie remarked.

“Shut up! You don't know anything!” Jean cried. He pulled down on his face. “Come on, Traumer.”

“Uh.” Berthold walked out beside him. “You have to give him at least an hour. Check back then. Depending on how long it's been since you watered him--”

“I haven't watered him in . . . in years,” Jean choked.

Annie snorted and sat down on the couch. “Don't be such a drama queen.”

“It's in his genes. I don't think he can help it,” Eren said.

They all “mmed” in agreement.

“Jean, if you killed that plant, there'll be hell to pay, I hope you realize. That's not just an ordinary plant. That was the last thing Armin's parents gave him before they got in that car accident. It means more than you'll ever know anyway,” Eren said, and Jean's heart and stomach switched places. If he just hadn't been concentrating so hard on writing songs, Träumer would still be alive and kicking—in a figurative sense.

Berthold patted his back. “Just wait. Check back. It might be okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Be positive. Armin would be positive.” Jean picked up Träumer in his hands and slunk back into the room. He placed the plant on the coffee table and collapsed on the couch beside Annie. “Be positive. Hang in there buddy. Hang in there.”

Mikasa eyed the plant warily. “It really doesn't look that great.”

“Be positive, Mikasa,” Eren snapped.

Annie pushed him away with her foot to make room for Berthold.

“I think it's time for egregious amounts of alcohol,” Jean directed Eren. “Pour me some.”

“I thought I was the guest?”

“Pour me some!” Jean demanded.

And for a reason unknown to Jean, Eren did it. Then again, he poured everyone another round. And then another. One more. Then they moved on to the Punkin Ale. Jean started crying about how he was a failure at life, that if he couldn't take care of a plant then children were definitely out of the question. Eren called him boring and wandered over to the TV. He pushed the “on” button and . . . the TV turned on.

“What the fuck man, I thought yousaid the repairman hadn come,” Eren complained. “We've been misssssssing out. Lemme go find . . . that movie. Did I leave it here?” He took his beer and wandered around, looking in strange places like in the microwave and behind pictures on the walls.

“He probably came when Jean was out,” Annie said, the most coherent of them all.

Jean grunted.

“Where the hell is the movie?” Eren asked, stopping by the armchair and glaring down at Jean. “Whad you do withit?”

“Eren, I think you need to sit down before you hurt yourself,” Mikasa mumbled. She tugged on his sleeve and brought him down on her lap.

“Who cares about the TV,” Jean said, leaning forward and looking at Träumer. “It's been like five years and he's not doing anything . . . I killed him. Maybe some more water?” He lifted his beer above the plant and then poured it in.

As if by magic, Eren leaped off of Mikasa and flew towards Jean.“Stop! What the hell is wrong with you?” He jerked Jean's wrist back. What remained of the beer sloshed out over Jean's newly-washed plaid tee. “You asshole,” he said, the anger momentarily clearing his head. “Now you're really going to kill it!”

Jean shoved his beer into Eren's hand and then fell down on his side, curling into a ball. “I didn't . . . mean . . . mean to . . .”

“Should we hold a wake?” Mikasa asked.

“It's not dead yet!” Eren snapped. “No . . . shit . . . oh you're really in for it now, Jean.”

“What? I can't hear you? Blah blah blah--”

“You're all a bunch of fucking morons,” Annie muttered. She took Berthold's hand and led him up. “We need to go to the bathroom. Right, Bertl?”

“Uh, right?” Berthold said as she tugged him along after him.

“I think . . . we all made a bad decision,” Mikasa said, head drooping to the side.

“Yeah . . .” Jean murmured, eyelids getting heavy.

Eren drunk the rest of Jean's beer and then made a cross on his body. “God in Heaven, watch over this plant. And this asshole who murdered him. Probably murdered him. By your good graces or . . . whatever I'm supposed to . . . bless this plant. That he may live. And shit.”

“Plants don't shit,” Mikasa said into the cushions.

“Armin'll shit bricks when he finds out. He'll have me for breakfast and then shit me out . . . in bricks. Oh God, I'm not ready to die,” Jean cried and smashed his face down into the couch. “Not yet, God. I'm too young to go.”

“As young as Träumer?” Eren asked.

“Too young . . . too young . . .”

–

The ticking clock woke him up. Eren was asleep on the ground, and Mikasa in the chair. The other two were nowhere to be seen. Jean sat up and gripped his head. And then he remembered. Träumer was just as dead looking as before. He got up to his feet, wobbled, and then grabbed the measuring cup. Even if it didn't help, he had to try. He had to water it until Armin came back.

“Oh shit,” he said as he poured the water. “I didn't fertilize it. Ever. Shit . . . Traumer . . . can you hear me? Don't be dead. You little bastard, you can't do this to me. And Armin. You were supposed to live. You were supposed to follow your dreams. I mean Armin didn't name you Traumer for nothing. You were supposed to go out there and be the big guy. The star. The ace. And now look at you. You're nothing. And you'll always be nothing unless you try. Fight. Live. If not for Armin then for yourself. Fight, Traumer. You gotta fight.” He stared at the plant. It did nothing—as if that was a surprise, but in his current state, Jean was hoping for a miracle. If God could move mountains, then this plant could fucking move.

But nothing. Jean leaned back against the couch. “Today. Tomorrow. And then . . . then I'm dead. I'm going to die. I guess it was nice . . . while it lasted.”

There was a noise in the hallway and then Annie and Berthold appeared. When she saw Jean was awake, Annie paused. “Jean, just so you know, we had sex in your bed last night. Since you weren't there and it was open.”

“That's great, Annie,” Jean said vacantly.

Annie glanced at Berthold and he shrugged. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Awesome. Then we're going to be leaving.” They shuffled towards the door.

“Bye,” Jean said.

“Bye,” Annie said and then pulled Berthold out.

A few minutes later it clicked. “What the _fuck?_ ” Jean raced into his bedroom and stared at his bed. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” Quickly he gathered all the sheets in his arms and dumped them in the washer—it was too much, so he pulled the comforter out. Then he washed his hands three times. And then he stuck his head under the faucet.

When he got back to the main room, Mikasa and Eren were curled up on the couch watching television. “What's the matter with you?” Eren asked. “Oh besides the fact you murdered Armin's plant?”

“I don't want to talk about it. About any of it,” Jean said.

Eren made a confused face. “What?”

“Eren . . . Mikasa . . . you've never had sex on my bed have you?”

At first all Eren could do was stare and then he burst into laughter that had Mikasa cringing and begging him to be a little quieter. “So where's Annie and Berthold?” Eren asked in a softer voice, patting Mikasa on the arm.

“Far from here. And never coming back. God Almighty. What is life.” Jean sat down at the table and rested his chin on his fist. “Will you guys help me clean things up? I've been neglecting everything.”

“My gut and mind is telling me no. My soul is also telling me no. My common sense is actually telling me no. But you know what, my stupidity is telling me yes,” Eren said. “But only because I pity you.”

“I pity me too,” Jean sighed. “Thanks.”

“I suppose that's what _friends_ are for.” Eren gave him a look.

Jean smiled a bit. “Yeah. I suppose.”

They were washing windows when Jean got a call from Armin. The others paused and stared at Jean as he picked up. “H-hey Armin.”

“Hey! I'm just calling to say I'll be home a day early. So is it all right to pick me up at noon at the airport tomorrow?” Armin asked.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“You okay? You sound a little weird,” Armin said. “Everything's okay right?”

Jean looked at Träumer. “Everything's . . . peachy.”

“Uh okay. Well great. See you tomorrow. Love you!”

“And I love you too. So much.” He hung up before Armin asked questions.

Eren gave him the most sorry look. Jean could only nod his head in despair.

–

Jean was subdued when he picked Armin up at the airport. He hugged him tight he said he'd missed him and he was glad he was home. But he was exuberant like he'd been planning too. And Armin seemed hurt. It wasn't until they got back to the apartment and Armin saw the poor specimen on the coffee table that he understood. He dropped his bags and he walked lightly over to Träumer with his hands out. He knelt down and rubbed one of the crinkly leaves.

“I'd prefer a quick death,” Jean said.

Armin looked over. “What?”

“I'm trash. I'm sorry,” he added, shoulders drooping. “I let him die. Jesus, I poured beer on him.”

“You poured . . . beer on him?” Armin said slowly. That dangerous tone was about to come. Jean knew it. And he was already bracing himself for the oncoming storm. Armin's wrath. The Jeanpocalypse. There was only one way this could end. In his head, Jean said his prayers. And a few “Hail Mary”s just to be safe.

Jean nodded.

Armin looked over at Träumer, lips pursed. “Jean . . . it was just a plant. You just had to give it water every day. Just fifteen seconds, if that, of your day?”

Bullet number one hit the left side of his heart. That there was the face of a broken man. A beautiful broken man. Broken by Jean. “I know, I'm sorry.”

“This was the last thing my parents gave me . . . I've had it for eight years.” Armin gave the shrug of a man who's given up. The one who's not angry, just tired. And sad. And disappointed.

Bullet number two pierced Jean in the lower half of of his heart, so near the other one it just made a single bigger hole.

Armin got to his feet. “Well, I guess there's no helping it now. If he doesn't get better, then that's that. But I think he's past the point of no return. I've had enough plants to know the signs. Did you water him today?”

“When I woke up,” Jean said so quietly he could barely hear it himself.

Finally Armin looked back. He wasn't angry at all. Those blue eyes drowned Jean.

Bullet number three hit him right in the center and exploded his heart into tiny bloody pieces.

“I'd rather you had just told me you were having problems with Träumer instead of lying to me,” Armin said. He walked over to Jean—no, his luggage—and pulled them into the bedroom. At least . . . the bed was all washed and clean. At least Jean could cling to that, as stupid as it was.

Carefully he followed Armin in and watched him unzip one of the carriers. “I'm sorry. I got so wrapped up in writing . . . you know what? No. There's no excuse. I'm just a piss poor example of a human.”

Armin stopped and then turned around, giving him an unreadable expression.

“All I did while you were gone was read and write and get drunk. So, I'm sorry about that too. I'm probably a pretty terrible boyfriend, while we're on this entire subject.” Jean folded his arms and looked away, face getting hot. “I'm just . . . God . . . I'm just sorry.”

Armin walked over and nudged his face over. Jean thought he might actually die now because there was no trace of disdain in his eyes. No, in fact he stared at Jean in this loving tender way that Jean did not at all think he deserved. Plus, the corner of his mouth lifted up in a little smile, and one of his eyebrows arched up, and none of this was fair at all. “Shit happens. But you're not terrible.” He kissed Jean's nose. “Not at being a human or a boyfriend. I mean, you're incredibly stupid most of the time, sometimes an asshole, and occasionally mind-blowingly shallow, but all the time you're wonderful.”

“W-wonderful? You're not mad?”

“I was. Mostly I'm just sad. But I'll get over it.” Armin turned away and then paused halfway. He glanced over out of the corner of his eye. “But I'm not having sex with you for two weeks.”

“Two weeks.” Jean whole body turned into jelly, like Armin had taken out every single one of his bones.

“No time at all compared to how many years Träumer just lost,” Armin reasoned.

“I . . . guess you're right. I should be happy right? I expected you to kill me,” Jean said. “So did Eren.”

Armin smiled. “I still might.”

Jean paled and backed away into the door frame.

“Jesus, Jean, you squirm at the tiniest things.” Armin took a few steps towards him and kissed him deeply. Of course he ended it before Jean desired, and with a glow in his eyes said, “Maybe that'll hold you off for two weeks? Other than that, it's just chaste kisses.”

“Won't you suffer too?”

“No,” Armin said easily with a shrug. Then he nonchalantly turned away and began unpacking.

Jean stared at him slack-jawed. “I can't believe this,” he said in a high-pitched voice.

“By the way,” Armin said without turning around. “You owe me a plant.” He slightly turned his head. “ _Commander_ ,” he added in a syrupy voice.

Jean bit his lip. “You can't do that. That's not fair.” All right, so maybe Armin had left _one_ bone in his body. And for this very purpose.

“Maybe I'll change my mind if you sing to me,” Armin said and turned his head back again.

Jean had never run to his guitar faster.

**Author's Note:**

> Collab with Breezy :) [(Companion Comic)](http://breezerkawaiiart.tumblr.com/post/91937918712/jearmin-week-day-3-dishonesty-i-think-your)


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